Charlie lived on the bottom floor of a two story house. A lawn chair and a recycling bin overflowing with empty beer bottles greeted us at the door.

Michael knocked firmly, and waited for an answer.

The curtains were drawn closed, white paint peeling away from rotten wood. Cigarette butts stuffed into a small hard glass ashtray. All smoked severely down to the filter. The sight of it caused me a sharp pain in my stomach.

No answer from the door. So we pried open a window on the side and shimmied through, falling into the lounge.

The lounge was dark and filled with the thick stench of sweat. The house was lit by candlelight, random ornaments and tapestries collected from various local op shops scattered all over the room.

A heavy shuffling sounding from down the hall. The environment made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and suddenly I remembered why we never visited.

“Are you sure we got the right house?” I asked Michael.

“I sure hope so.” he replied, pulling the front door curtain across and opening the door.

A wide figure guarded the hallway, dressed in a cheap high vis jumper and hunting pants. His face cloaked in a thick beard, a long unwashed mullet with the sides clipped short, “Don’t open that, who knows what you’re inviting in!” Charlie muttered, in a droning voice.

“This place reeks Charlie, you gotta air it out every once in a while.” Michael replied, fanning the door back and forth.

“Hardout Charlie, it’s not healthy to be cooped up like this.” I agreed, watching as Charlie took a seat on his worn down couch.

“I thought you might’a been Wes, he’s meant to be coming around sometime soon.” Charlie continued, picking at cigarette butts that rested on his lounge table.

I whistled at Charlie, caught his attention, shook my head, and tossed him my pouch of tobacco.

He began to construct himself a cigarette, while coughing deeply, and I began to second guess my choice to give him tobacco.

“Who’s Wes?” Michael asked, picking up loose cans from around the lounge and dumping them into the recycling bin.

“Oh, he’s just some guy that comes round each week and shows me some stuff he’s selling.” Charlie answered, licking the cigarette paper.

“Stuff? Like what? Drugs?” Michael asked, joining my side.

“Nah, nah, not that, he knows I’m not buying. Usually just Tech or jewellery or rare books.” Charlie continued. “Do you guys want a coffee?” He offered.

I gazed at the clock on the wall above Charlie and realised that it read 8 o'clock, very likely that the batteries had run out. “What’s the time, Charlie?” I asked.

“I don’t know man, I took the batteries out of all my clocks. It’s not good to live life being timed.” Charlie stated, picking up a lighter. “Have a coffee if you want?” He offered again.

I was itching for more caffeine, but I never drink coffee in the afternoon. I looked over the outdoor horizon, observed the sun's position, and estimated that it oughta be the afternoon by now. “Do you have a beer instead?” I asked Charlie.

“Check the fridge.” Charlie replied, sparking his cigarette.

I moved along into Charlie’s kitchen. His stovetop was stained with week old pasta sauce, salt spillage and grime. A handprint of pasta sauce on the handle of his white fridge. Absolutely despicable work.

I reached below the pasta stain and opened the fridge. Inside was a set of keys, jars of spreads, a half eaten and open loaf of bread, and a pot of spaghetti on the bottom shelf.

In the door of the fridge were three cold cans of double brown. I picked up two with one hand and the third with my other, closed the fridge and handed one to Charlie.

I then passed one to Michael but he raised his hand, “Nah, I’m good.”

“C’mon man, have a beer with us.” I insisted, offering him the can again.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Nah man, I’m never drinking again.” Michael stated, pushing the can away.

I lowered the can. Michael doesn’t wanna complete the drinking circuit. Despicable work.

I cracked into my can and cheers’d Charlie. I took my time working through the thick dirt like sludge while Charlie finished his in a couple hefty gulps.

“You can have this one too, if you want?” I told Charlie.

Charlie rose to his feet and picked up his second can. Moving outside to finish off his cigarette. Nonsensical work.

We stood in a circle underneath the deck of the top story. Clothes and bed sheets pegged to the clothes line beside us.

“We saw old fuckwit earlier today.” Michael told Charlie.

“Who’s that?” asked Charlie, sipping his beer.

“Chris.” answered Michael, gripping the overhead balcony rafters.

“Chris? I thought they put him in Prison.” Charlie said, finishing his beer and tossing the can into the recycling bin.

“Nah, he pleaded mental health and got chucked in the Mason bin.” Michael told, dropping from the rafters.

“Vehicular manslaughter? That’s what happened right?” I butted in.

“Yeah, that's right. Chris got loaded on crack at some party and drunk drove himself and Jay back and wrapped Jay's car around a power pole.” Michael explained, scratching his neck.

“Jay was asleep laying down in the back?” I asked further.

“Yup, broke his spine. Didn’t make it.” Michael replied.

“And you were in the psych ward?” I turned to Charlie.

“Yeah, but I still made it to the funeral.” Charlie answered, itching at his belly.

“Chris didn’t?” I turned to Michael.

“He didn’t dare.” Michael confirmed, spitting on the ground.

“Life’s a fragile thing.” Charlie said, looking up at the sky, “do you have a kid now bro?”

Michael paused, “Yeah, you haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“Nah, not yet. Maybe one day, aye.” Charlie said.

“Course man, I’ll have to have you over some time.” Michael replied, patting Charlie on the back of his shoulder.

“Really?” Charlie asked, grabbing Michael in a tight embrace.

Michael hugged him back then shoved him off, “Yeah, of course man. You’re his uncle after all.”

Loud footsteps began to bellow down the driveway, followed by a quick scuff and then a tall muscular fellow revealed himself as he fell onto the hard concrete beside us.

“Hey Wes.” Charlie waved, looking down at the muscular man.

Wes got up off of the ground and straightened his baseball cap as he corrected his posture. “Charlie, I found something you might like.”

“You did?” Charlie asked, his eyes widening.

“Yeah, I have two iPhones for you to choose from.” Wes replied, pulling a couple iPhones from his league short pockets.

One of the iPhones had a severely smashed screen and would only flicker when he went to turn it on.

The other was still in perfect working use. As far as we could tell at least.

“Looks like you’ve only got one to choose from now. I’ll take 150 if you want it.” Wes added, wiping his nose.

Charlie took hold of the phone and turned it on. “Oh! It’s an IPhone 13!”

“Shit man, If you don’t grab it Charlie I probably will. 150 is a stupid bargain.” I stated.

“Damn, sorry I meant 500. My bad.” Wes reinstated, stretching his arms.

“500 is a bit much for me, Wes.” Charlie replied handing it back.

Wes took a hold of the phone and as the exchange was made; I saw a flicker in Michael’s eye.

“Can I have a look at that?” Michael asked, outstretching his hand.

“You got the cash?” Wes answered, holding the phone in a tight fist.

“Will a bank transfer do?” Michael asked, still holding his hand out.

“Sure thing.” Wes replied, scratching the back of his head.

“Can I hold the broken one, I just need to use it to transfer.” Michael queried.

Wes passed him the broken phone.

Michael entered his phone's passcode, rang the phone that Wes was holding which was my phone.

Wes tucked my phone into his pocket and then tried grabbing Michael’s phone but ended up fumbling it and it dropped to the ground causing the screen to shatter.

“Fuck ya! That’s an extra 200 right there.” Wes spat, shoving Michael.

Michael stood firm and shot a stare of venom into Wes’s soul. Wes simply sneered and dropped a knee to pick up the phone wreckage.

While Wes had dropped a knee, I wrapped my arm around his throat, locked off and held my other arms forearm and began to squeeze. The single hold I had learned over 2 classes of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

Wes clawed and tried to wrestle me off of his back, but I held on for dear life. Partially out of hatred, but mostly because I feared what that muscular beast would do to me if he got his neck free.

After a few more moments of struggle Wes became limp and I slid off of his back.

“What the fuck have you done, Percy! He’s dead!” Charlie wailed.

“Keep it down you simpleton, he’s just asleep.” I responded, kicking his foot.

Michael frowned as he gazed down at Wes, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I replied, nudging his shoulder with my foot.

Wes still didn’t move, and I couldn’t tell if his chest was moving or not.

My face flushed red, “Yo, Charlie. Just keep an eye on him, he’ll be alright, Mike and I have gotta bounce.”

“What should I do if he doesn’t wake up?” Charlie asked, taking a step back from me.

I bit my tongue, dropped a knee and felt for a pulse. After 10 blood curdling seconds I felt a faint heartbeat, “He’s all good. Just wake him up in a couple minutes.” I responded, dropping his wrist and feeling inside his pockets.

I found a set of keys and chucked them inside my pocket. Michael frowned at me.

I shrugged, “They took our car, we might as well take theirs until we sort a replacement.”

Michael clicked his tongue, “What if we get caught?”

“What’s he gonna do? Run to the cops and say ‘hey these guys stole my car after I stole theirs off a tow truck I stole’?” I debated, kicking Wes in his ribs.

Wes let out a violent gasp and began to groan as we rolled around on the ground.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here Michael!” I blurted, rushing towards the street.